Adam Raised A Cain
by littledaybreaker
Summary: Sometimes, Katniss's son says things that scare her and make her think about things that she wishes she didn't have to think about.


A/N: This is my first ever Hunger Games fic, taking place after the epilogue of Mockingjay. I'm nervous, so constructive criticism is very much appreciated! Title is from the Bruce Springsteen song of the same name.

I have yet to decide if I feel like this is a standalone piece or the start of something bigger, so feedback on that is greatly appreciated!

* * *

><p>"One or two?" I ask, brushing the last of the tangles out of my daughter's hair. She stands perfectly still in her white nightgown, considering, and then holds up two fingers. "Two, please." At eight, she doesn't need to use her fingers to count anymore, but it's a holdover from her babyhood that I'm not ready to let go of yet, and thankfully, neither is she.<p>

I braid her soft hair and give her a little pat on the bottom when I'm finished. "Go get your brother, tell him it's his turn," I say. She darts off down the hall, blonde braids bouncing, and I can't help the tight feeling in my chest as I watch her go. It has been twenty years since the last time I saw my sister, but sometimes living in this house with the little girl who has her name as a middle name makes me feel like she never really left.

Her brother barrelling down the hallway snaps me out of the reverie. He is another beast entirely, one whose language I don't always speak, try as I may—and sometimes, I don't want to try.

He is by and large not a bad little boy. He is bright and funny. He loves his sister and baking with his father, and he's full of questions. Questions that I am not always prepared to answer. Questions that, if I am being honest, I don't always know _how _to answer.

This evening he's got flour on the end of his nose from baking bread after supper, and he's chattering about how Daddy let him stir and add the "cim-na-mum" and put it in the oven by himself. I listen intently as he climbs in the bath, driving the little wooden car he had stashed in his pocket along the edge of the tub. He doesn't talk much as I wash his hair or as I soap up the wash cloth for his body and let him do the honours. In fact, he is so quiet for so long that I think that I've dodged the bullet for tonight. It isn't until I let my breath out, as he's fastening his pajamas, that he asks. "Mom," he begins, in a casual-but-not-really-casual tone that usually takes people years—more than six—to perfect. "What would happen if there was a big war and I had to go and fight to save you and Dad and Becca?"

I sigh, in what I hope is a 'you're being silly' way and not an exasperated way, or even a frightened way. "That won't happen," I reassure him.

His eyes are round, serious and disbelieving. "But what if it does?" he persists. "What if it does, and I have to fight to save you, and I die, but my team wins and you guys are safe?"

"It won't _happen, _Jasper," I reply, my voice getting a little testy so he knows I'm serious. He looks hurt, so I relent, getting down to his level. "But if it does—we would miss you very, very much, but we would always be so, so proud of you for being brave enough to protect us, and we would never, ever forget you."

He seems satisfied with this answer, and stands on his tippy-toes to kiss me on the cheek. "Love you, mama," he says, and I sigh again—this time happy. Relieved that the conversation never went any further than that. Sometimes his questions get alarmingly detailed.

"Love you, Jasper," I reply to the top of his soft, sweet-smelling head, holding him close. "Go tell daddy you're ready for your story."

He scoots off, and I tidy the bathroom, draining the tub and hanging up towels and wringing out doll hair before joining my daughter in her room.

She is already laying in bed looking through a picture book, which she closes when she hears me come in. I lay on the bed with her, just like every night, and we stare up at the ceiling for a few moments before she finally requests, "Tell me about Aunt Prim."

I smile. "Again?" I ask, but even before she giggles and shyly nods, I'm wracking my brain to think of a story I haven't already told her.

I settle for telling her about the time I brought Prim home a doll from the Hob. It was the only doll she'd ever had, and for months afterward, she carried it everywhere with her, even to school. She had named it Willow, and sometimes it seemed like that scraggly, worn-out thing was her very best friend in the world, even besides Buttercup. She kept that doll with her and slept with it every night, as long as she had been alive. I finish the story with a smile on my face, and when I look over, Becca is smiling, too.

"What happened to it?" she asks me, and I think for a moment.

"I might still have it in the closet," I say thoughtfully. "I'll have a look for you."

She looks so happy that my heart swells up a little. Becca has many dolls, much nicer dolls than the ratty old thing I picked up for my sister so long ago in the long gone Hob, but somehow I know that she'll treasure this one as much as Prim had.

Peeta is still in with Jasper when I leave Becca's room—I can hear them talking animatedly, and then Peeta laughs. I smile, deciding to leave them be. I'll say goodnight to him once I've found the doll for Becca.

It takes longer than I expected to find it, but I eventually do, tucked into a box with a few other things of Prim's—old school papers, mostly, but I also find a drawing of her, Buttercup, and me standing under the sun, smiling, which I tuck into my pocket with a wistful smile before picking up the doll and examining it. She's missing one bead eye and both of her yarn braids, but her stitched mouth keeps smiling placidly up at me, and when I pick her up and hold her close, I swear I can smell Prim on her.

Becca is asleep when I creep back into her room, one hand flung across her forehead, breathing softly. I watch her sleep for a moment before tucking the doll under the arm that isn't flung across her face, kissing her forehead and then creeping back out to go say goodnight to Jasper.

Jasper, too, is sleeping—on his stomach with his arms spread and his head turned to the side, just like his father. He looks so young when he's asleep, like the little boy that he is instead of the wise, befuddling creature that he is sometimes to me, and I lean against the doorway, drinking him in.

I am not stupid. I know that peace, especially peace like we live in, cannot last forever. Eventually I will have to tell my son about the things his father and I saw. Eventually there will be a 'big war'. He will not be a baby with flour on his nose and rocks in his pockets forever. All I can do is hold my breath and hope that when the 'big war' does come, it's long after Jasper's time on this planet, that my child will never have to live through that, or worse yet, be the cause of it.

I cross the threshold of his room and turn off his lamp, kiss him on the forehead, smooth his hair back away from his temple. Nothing will hurt my children. Not if I can help it. They deserve better than that.


End file.
